Page 12 of Reclaiming Venom

As we stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sizzle of bacon on the grill, creating an aroma that tugged at the edges of my memory.

“Two for breakfast?” a cheery waitress called out, already reaching for menus.

Ridley squeezed my hand, a silent reassurance. “Yes, please,” she answered, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to light up the room.

I found myself studying her profile, wondering at the familiarity of her features and the comfort of her presence. Who was this vibrant woman who claimed to be my wife? And why did every fiber of my being want to believe her?

As we slid into a worn leather booth, Ridley’s infectious laughter filled the air. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned across the table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Remember that time you tried to make bread?” she asked, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “I had this insane craving for homemade bread, and you, being the tough biker you are, decided to tackle it head-on.”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to conjure the memory she spoke of. “I don’t…” I began, but she waved away my protest.

“Oh, Venom.” She chuckled. “You should have seen yourself. Flour everywhere, you cursing up a storm… You looked like a ghost had exploded in our kitchen. That’s when the kitchen counter got ruined.”

As she spoke, I found myself hanging on every word, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of a life I couldn’t recall. The warmth in her voice, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed -- it all felt achingly familiar.

“Did I actually manage to make the bread?” I asked, surprising myself with my curiosity.

Ridley’s laughter bubbled up again. “Oh, honey, you tried. But let’s just say we ended up ordering pizza that night.”

I couldn’t help but smirk at the image she painted. It was so at odds with the tough, no-nonsense biker I knew myself to be, and yet… there was something about it that rang true.

As we ordered our food, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Ridley’s vibrant personality filled the space between us, her words weaving a tapestry of shared experiences I longed to remember.

“You know,” she said, her voice softening as she reached across the table to touch my hand, “you may not remember it all right now, but we’ve had a good life, Venom. You, me, and our kids -- we’ve built something special.”

Her fingers traced patterns on my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I found myself captivated by the way the diner’s lights reflected in her eyes, creating depths I wanted to lose myself in.

“Tell me more,” I said, my voice gruffer than I intended. “About us. About… our family.”

Ridley’s smile widened, and as she launched into another story, I realized I could listen to her talk forever. I was desperate to reclaim the life she described -- a life that, despite my foggy memory, felt undeniably right.

* * *

As we stepped out of the diner, the late morning sun bathed everything in a warm glow. Ridley’s blonde hair caught the light, shimmering like spun gold.

“How about a walk?” she suggested, gesturing toward a nearby path that wound its way along the riverbank. “It’s a beautiful day, and there’s a spot down there that’s always been special to us.”

I nodded, intrigued by the prospect of exploring more of this world we shared. “Lead the way,” I said, my voice a low rumble.

As we strolled side by side, the gentle lapping of the river against its banks filled the air. The scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth surrounded us, stirring something deep within me.

Ridley’s hand brushed against mine, and without thinking, I intertwined our fingers. Her small hand fit perfectly in my larger one, as if they were made for each other.

“You know,” Ridley began, her voice light but tinged with nostalgia, “if you want stories about the kids, I should tell you about the time you taught Farrah to ride a bicycle.”

She squeezed my hand reassuringly. “You were so patient with her. Spent hours running alongside that little pink bike, holding her steady. And not two hours after she finally got the hang of it, she rode straight through my newly planted flower beds.”

I chuckled, picturing the scene. “I bet that went over well.”

Ridley laughed, the sound as clear and refreshing as the river beside us. “Oh, I was furious for about five seconds. But then I saw how proud she was, and how proud you were of her… I couldn’t stay mad.”

As we continued our walk, Ridley regaled me with more stories of our life together. With each tale, I felt a growing warmth in my chest, a sense of belonging I couldn’t quite explain.

“Oh! And then there was the time we caught Mariah with a wine cooler,” Ridley said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Poor thing panicked when we walked in. She threw it, and that fruity alcohol went everywhere. All over you, down your shirt, in your beard. You looked like a grizzly bear who’d raided a liquor store.”

I ran my hand through my beard, now shot through with silver, imagining the sticky mess. “Bet that was a bitch to clean up.”

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